by Joanne Fluke
This time he was driving in his dream, being very careful to stop at every red light and observe the traffic regulations. There was a map open on the seat beside him, and once he pulled over to the side and parked under a street light so he could check his progress. He sat there for what seemed like hours, hands gripping the wheel, staring out at the yellow circles the headlights made as they tunneled out into the blackness and overlapped on the pavement ahead.
Was he dreaming the dream, repeating it in his mind like a zealous film editor? Running and rerunning a tricky segment until it was perfect? Or was he remembering what he’d dreamed before? It was all very confusing, and the answer eluded him, hovering just on the border of consciousness and then slipping away when he attempted to reach out and grab it.
He was standing in a courtroom on a perfect Southern California afternoon. Huge rectangles of sunlight washed in through the long, high windows. He could see the wood gleaming, smell the furniture polish they’d used to rub down the fences. Fences? No, that wasn’t quite right. The structure was more like a large open box made of gleaming oak with a rail running around it. The rail was the object that caused him to think of fences. But this one was heavy and sturdy, and it ran all around the box.
There were people inside, many people. He could count them if he wanted to be sure, but he already knew their number. Twelve. A perfect dozen.
The light was growing fuzzy now, and the image became diffused like a picture shot through a certain kind of lens. What was it called? Wide angle? No, that wasn’t right. It was a vignette. But there was something that made his heart pound and his hands tremble as he held them clasped behind his back. Was he praying? No, his hands were clasped behind his back. And there were bracelets around his wrists, but they weren’t bracelets exactly.
That was later. He was getting ahead of himself, or maybe the editor had made a bad jump cut. Back to the robe, a long black robe. And the man who was wearing it was walking across the stage. He was of some importance. Every member of the audience rose as he made his entrance. Was he royalty, perhaps? Everyone in the cast and the audience seemed to know exactly who he was.
That wasn’t important. He was getting sidetracked, and the dream was playing on. The twelve were the principal players. This was their scene, and he had to be very careful not to step on their lines. But there had been no rehearsal, at least none that he remembered.
What was his cue? Who was he playing? Too late to attempt to remember that now. The curtain had already gone up. It was show time.
The twelve were magnificent. Their faces were huge and hard, like the sculptures of the presidents at Mount Rushmore. Their eyes were flat, gleaming stones that accused him. He was playing the condemned man. Thank God he’d remembered in time.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Their voices were slow and measured. They rang with the deep, resonant tones of a bell. A death knell. For him. But he was innocent! They had given the wrong interpretation. The author had never intended the play to end this way!
And then he was moving, hurtling over the rail in one soaring leap, right into the jury box. But they had vanished, and he was alone on the stage, alone in the bright white eye of the spotlight.
And then he was on a table—a metal table that was so cold, his body was numb. The light was still above him, and he was pinned in its icy glare. The actors that suddenly surrounded him wore masks to hide their identities. One had a knife with a blade that came closer, closer. Just as it was about to cut into the flesh of his face, the stage was plunged into sudden, devastating darkness.
Oh, God! They’d missed a light cue. And the knife—But it was no longer a knife. It had changed to a spoon. A bent metal spoon, filed down to a killing edge. There was breathing in the darkness. Coming closer. Hoarse laughter. Danger! He was not alone on stage any longer. Someone was approaching. Shh! He’ll hear you! And another. And yet another. They grew to a ring of fearful shadows. Shadows that had the power to hurt. And maim. Cruel and unusual punishment, but that didn’t matter. No one played by the rules in this place. And then he was falling, knocked almost to the point of unconsciousness. But not enough, not nearly enough.
The scene shifted in its cloak of inky blackness. Forces of evil were torturing his body. His flesh was tearing, ripping apart in bloody tatters. His warm red blood was raining down, filling his mouth and his eyes and his ears.
He screamed, but the director didn’t hear him. Or perhaps he hadn’t screamed at all. He couldn’t play this scene. Not ever again. They had to pull the curtain to end the play.
The lights came on, so bright they blinded him. The green masks reappeared, wavered, and then reversed their direction so quickly they were gone in a blink of the eye. The scenes were out of order as they flickered past, fleeing double-time, even faster across the screen.
There they were the twelve. The hard, solid, chiseled twelve in their box of gleaming wood. It was starting again. Another performance. The long black robe had entered, and everyone rose as the curtain went up.
Oh, no! He couldn’t! The twelve were the key. If he could still their lips before they could speak the first line, the play would be finished before it had started.
He jumped the fence. There was no time to wait for his cue. One of the twelve crumpled to dissolve into empty, benign space. And then two. And three. How clever he was, how fast he moved, to catch them before they could elude him. He’d learned their tricks. Another. And another. Until only the four were left. But where were they? Hiding.
And then he was driving, driving to find them as the houses rolled past his car, all shuttered and dark. Four beacons to guide him. Four places to go. Four players left to silence before he could sleep.
And he knew that he would rewrite his part. Triumphant, the way it was meant to be played. But there were miles to go, speeches to utter, actions to perform.
Only when the stage had returned to a mute, peaceful void could the curtain fall with a whispered finality. And the play—the chronicle of his pain that seemed destined to go on forever—could mercifully end.
CHAPTER 21
It was almost four in the morning. Jose Sanchez yawned as he flipped a hamburger on the grill. The past few days had been exhausting, but it had been worth it. His cousin had found a job.
Three days ago, at six in the morning, Jose had taken Ramone to the place on Pico Boulevard where the men lined up to look for work. It was cold in the morning darkness, and many of the men shivered because they had no jackets. As the men waited, stamping their feet to keep warm, a fog crept in from the ocean. It mixed with the fumes from the early morning traffic to cover them all in its damp, foul blanket.
Pride was difficult to maintain as the cars and trucks drove up. They loomed out of the wet gray fog like beasts with shining yellow eyes, and their drivers examined the line of workers on the curb, on display like so many pieces of beefsteak in a market. One by one they rolled down their windows to point at those they wanted to hire. “Hey, you! Okay. And you. Get in back.”
The lucky ones jumped quickly into the truck beds or back seats to be driven away. There was no minimum wage for this kind of work, no protection if they were treated unfairly. Most of them had no papers, so they could not work legally in this country. The workers would be paid at the end of the day, and they would accept the amount they were given without protest. Whatever it was, it would be more than they could earn back home in Mexico.
Ramone was discouraged. There was an unwritten law among the men that could not be broken. Certain ones took the best places in line, and they were the first to be chosen. When they were gone, certain other men moved forward to fill their places. It was late by the time Ramone was given his turn to stand close to the street. And no one chose him. He was too puny to lift heavy concrete blocks, one driver said. Several others claimed he looked sick. Another wanted a worker who could speak English, and Ramone had learned only a few phrases. By then it was eight o’clock, and the best jobs had already been taken. Most of the wo
rkers who were left wandered away to try again the next morning.
Jose and Ramone stayed, along with a few others who were equally desperate. And then, very close to nine in the morning, a man in a shiny new pickup truck pulled up to ask if anyone knew how to paint a house, inside and out. The gringo’s Spanish was so bad that no one could understand him, but Jose recognized his Texas drawl. So Jose asked in English if the senor was from El Paso. And the man smiled and turned friendly as he said yes, he sure was. Jose said that EI Paso was beautiful country, not like Los Angeles, and the man agreed. He was going back someday, just as soon as he saved enough money to buy a good ranch. Did Jose know how to paint? He would be happy to hire him if he did.
Jose said that he was not there to look for work, since he already possessed a full-time job. He had come only to help his cousin, who spoke very little English. But Jose’s cousin had been a painter back in Tequila, Mexico. And if the señor would hire Ramone, Jose would come along and lend a hand for no pay.
The Texan was very happy to get two men for the price of one. He said to jump in; they would get started right away. But when Jose and Ramone started to get in the back of the truck, the man said no, they could ride up front with him where it was warm. He didn’t want them to freeze their patooties off before they had done any work.
Jose and the man laughed. And then Jose told Ramone to laugh also. It was Texas humor, impossible to translate, but the gringo seemed like a nice man, and there was a good heater in his truck.
The painting was not difficult. With both of them working, they had made good progress by the time the man came back at noon. He brought a bucket of chicken and a six-pack of beer. Corona. Why did gringos always assume they liked beer? Jose didn’t drink it often, but when he did, he preferred Budweiser. Marguerita teased him and said he thought he was too much of a honcho to drink anything but imported beer. Budweiser was imported beer to them.
The Texan was happy when they showed him what they had done; he told them that it was not necessary to call him Señor Rawlins. His name was Rollie. And he said he wanted to pay Jose for working also. It wouldn’t be fair if he took advantage. Texans did not operate that way.
As they ate the chicken and sipped the beer, Rollie paid Ramone a compliment. He said he admired the careful way that Ramone had masked the windows and the molding. He could tell that Ramone was a fine painter. Perhaps, if Jose could act as his interpreter and tell Ramone what work he wanted done, he could hire Ramone for the six other houses he owned that needed to be painted.
Six houses? Jose was suitably impressed. Rollie was a landlord then? No, not exactly. He was in the business of buying old houses and fixing them up for resale. And that meant he always had work for a good painter to do.
Jose said that was wonderful. Did Rollie also need a gardener? Ramone had a great talent with trees and plants, and he had also done landscaping back in Tequila.
Rollie slapped his knee and laughed. He said that he had never expected to find a gem like Ramone standing in line on Pico Boulevard. What other talents did his cousin have? This was getting good.
Jose told him about Ramane’s last job as a maintenance man repairing the trucks and machinery for a construction company. He told Rollie that Ramone also had the knowledge to fix electrical wiring and that he had done some fine carpentry, although it was only in his home in Tequila, not for pay.
Rollie slapped his knee again and offered Ramone another beer. He said Ramone was a Jack-of-all-trades, a phrase that meant he could do most anything he set his mind to. Ramone was a valuable man, and he could put him on his payroll full-time, if he had his papers.
That was a problem. Jose sighed and admitted that his cousin had no papers. They were very difficult to obtain. Ramone had to prove he had a job to get his papers, and he could not accept a job unless he already possessed them.
Rollie laughed and slapped his knee again. Wasn’t it the truth? They had a phrase for that kind of situation back in El Paso. They said you were between the stampede and the stockyard door, stuck in the middle of the shit and the stomping.
Jose laughed. Rollie’s phrases were very colorful. He had to remember that one. But what should his cousin do about the green card?
Keep right on working and not worry about it, Rollie advised. He would pay Ramone in cash every day and start pulling some strings with La Migra. He was sure he could get his hands on a green card as long as Ramone was careful not to get picked up and shipped back before the paperwork could go through.
Then Rollie went to his truck and came back with something he called red-eye. He poured a little in each of their beer bottles and said they were going to celebrate, by God. The beer with the red-eye was called a bulldogger in El Paso. What did Jose think of it?
Jose told Rollie that it was very good. And Ramone had caught on right away when he saw Jose’s gesture. He pretended to enjoy the vile drink so much that Rollie had slapped his knee again.
Then Rollie said that since they were all good buddies now, he wanted to ask Ramone a personal question. It had been itching at the back of his mind ever since he found out that Ramone was from Tequila. Would Jose please ask his cousin if they ate those worms in the bottom of the bottles?
“Jose? I think that burger’s done by now” Jose looked up, startled, to find Cheryl laughing at him. The hamburger he had been frying had a small black lump of charcoal on the grill.
“You’re tired, huh? Cheryl shook her head. “Still helping your cousin with that painting?”
“Today was the last day, Cheryl.” Jose plopped another hamburger on the grill and scraped the incinerated lump into the trash. “Now Ramone can work alone. He has succeeded in understanding Spanish spoken by a Texan. And Mr. Rollie Rawlins has submitted papers, so my cousin will soon be legal.”
Cheryl nodded. “That’s good. Now all Ramone has to do is lie low until it comes through. I’m glad this whole thing is almost over, Jose. How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Less than three hours. My eyes closed during Marguerita’s excellent dinner, and she made me go straight to bed.”
“Why don’t you take a break, Jose? Catch forty winks back in the storeroom. I can handle the grill for a while.”
“Thank you, Cheryl. You are very kind. But it would not be right for me to ask you to do my work.”
“Yes it would if you do me a favor.”
“What is this favor?”
Cheryl smiled. “I’m just dying for some of Marguerita’s salsa. If you bring me a batch as a favor, then I’ll handle the grill for you as a favor. Have we got a deal?”
“Of course, Cheryl. But I will bring you the salsa anyway. Marguerita is proud that you like it.”
“A favor for a favor, Jose. It’s only right.” Cheryl smacked him on the rear and pushed him toward the door. “Now go sack out, and I’ll wake you if things get too busy.”
Jose smiled as he stepped out of the kitchen door. Cheryl was a good friend. He took a deep breath of the cool night air and yawned again. Then he headed straight for the supply shed. Cheryl was right. He was exhausted.
The storeroom was on the far side of the building, a long metal shed that had a creaking metal door and a padlock. It was never locked during business hours, and since the truck stop was open twenty-four hours a day the padlock had rusted open on its hinges.
As Jose stretched out between two sacks of flour, he felt something hard and uncomfortable in his pocket. For a moment he was puzzled, but then he remembered. It was his knife. He had carried it with him since the telephone call, but nothing—absolutely nothing—had happened. There had been no more calls, and no new murders of jury members had been reported in the papers or on the television.
On the first day after the call, Jose had been very frightened. Even though Marguerita had known that something was wrong, he had not spoken of it to her. But that night he had decided that he must try to face his enemy alone and force him to show his face. He had walked down a deserted street, watchi
ng every shadow cautiously, but no one had come forward to try to harm him. He had walked three nights more, and then he had stopped. When he had asked Cheryl what more he could do, she had said that the man was probably a harmless crackpot after all, but it couldn’t hurt to keep carrying his knife.
Jose slipped the weapon out of his pocket and rested with his fingers touching the handle. He listened to the sounds of the darkness, but there was no sense of approaching danger. The night was as it always was, disturbed only by the hissing of air brakes as truckers pulled into the parking lot in front, and by the low rumble of traffic from the freeway interchange. There was a radio playing somewhere, barely audible, and Jose recognized the song. It was a country-and-western standard, something about having a satisfied mind.
He dozed off then, dropping deeper and deeper into a sleep so heavy it was almost drugged. The noise of the traffic dulled into a whisper and then faded into silence. He did not hear the sound of approaching footsteps or the creak of the supply room door as it was opened. And he did not wake as the sharp blade pierced his sleeping heart and stilled it forever.
Toni woke up with a groan. Only one thing could wake her in the middle of the night, and this was it. When Mike had gone out to do his errand, he’d come back with at least a dozen cartons of take-out Chinese from a Szechwan place. Toni loved Szechwan, and she’d really gorged herself. Then she had been thirsty all night, and she’d downed a full twelve-ounce tumbler of ice water right before they’d gone to bed. No wonder she was uncomfortable.
She slid quietly out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. What time was it? She shut the bathroom door and turned on the light, squinting at the sudden illumination. The old Burma Shave clock she’d taken as a memento from her father’s house told her it was four in the morning. They’d gone to bed at eleven, but it had been an hour before they’d gone to sleep so that meant she’d totaled only four hours.
Toni padded back to bed, but she didn’t climb under the covers. There was no way she could go right back to sleep. She should have gone to bed thirsty instead of drinking that water. But now that she was awake enough to think about it, this whole phenomenon might have some practical value. Twelve ounces of water at bedtime woke her up in four hours. She’d never realized it before, but she owned a built-in alarm clock, one that would be sure to wake her no matter how soundly she slept. Of course, she’d have to run a few tests to see exactly how it worked, but it ought to be every bit as consistent as her internal plumbing.
